Tug of War
by bugsfic
Summary: Repressions are released when Lucien Blake removes his shirt.


_For those Doctor Blake fans not on tumblr, I suggest you join us for the far-reaching, in-depth discussions which lead to this sort of creative inspiration. Thanks so much to Aussie Girl for the Australiazation of the fic._

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When one's life is on a single track, traveling mile after mile with only scheduled stops, even something as provincial as the annual Royal Ballarat Show could brighten a day. And right through the gates, there was a diversion much more entertaining than the flower arranging exhibit. It was an encounter with the newly engaged couple, Dr Lucien Blake and his housekeeper, Mrs Beazley.

Mrs Sandhurst called out, "Mrs Beazley, we must see the ring!"

Jean glanced at her escort before extending her hand.

"So old-fashioned! Lovely...if you like that sort of thing."

"It was treasured by the Lucien's mother," said Jean calmly. "It's beautiful to me as well."

Dr Blake smiled down at her. Mrs Sandhurst bristled, as a plump hen fluffs her feathers when splashed with water. Then her sharp gaze fell on Blake's hand about Mrs Beazley's waist. It lay a bit low, very close to cupping her hip. The other women noticed as well,each pursing their thin lips caked with bright red lipstick, a field of indignant poppies.

Before another one could find something snippy to say, a young man rushed up. "Doctor, you're needed. Bill's hurt his shoulder in the wood chopping contest."

"Of course, Charlie," Dr Blake said, turning to follow. He held out his arm to beckon Jean. "Come along, my dear. You can help me calm the wild beast that is Bill Hobart."

The couple gave hurried apologies and strode off, Jean's hand tucked around his elbow.

The oldest of our group, Mrs Pope, was the first to speak. "Well, I never."

Her dear friend Miss Sharpton, nodded vigorously. "Getting above herself, for sure."

I enjoyed a good rabble. "I don't know about that. I hardly consider Lucien Blake as heights to be scaled on the social ladder."

Mrs Sandhurst fixed me with a blazing stare. "It's his high rung, my dear, not the person himself. You're right there. He's entirely unsuitable."

Miss Sharpton clutched her large handbag close, as though Lucien Blake was going to reappear and try to snatch it. "Always has been. Why, the stories my cousin Clive has from seeing him in Berlin!"

"Your cousin Clive would know," I murmured.

She ignored me and kept raving: "Then to marry...a...Chinawoman! I'm sure they weren't even legally married," she hissed. "Those people aren't Christian."

"Jean Beazley had best hope not," said Mrs Quinn, "or in the eyes of the Lord-" And all of them, of course, I thought, "she'll be no better than his mistress when they wed."

" _If_ they wed," I said. "He's a flighty one." I spoke for everyone when I added, "I can't understand what she sees in him. From a simple farmer who knew his place to _that_."

"The chutney judging begins soon, " Miss Sharpton said after consulting her programme.

We all agreed that we must attend and headed to the pavilion.

As we strolled, Mrs Quinn had to have the last word. "It's not as though there's money. That ring was already in the family, diamonds or not."

After critiquing the judges' selections, we chanced upon the couple again, standing with those observing the teams forming for the tug of war contest. This was always a highlight of the final day, with the itinerant showies battling it out with Ballarat men. To keep it fair, the locals had to be from some associated group rather than a hand-picked selection of Ballarat's biggest bruisers. Usually it was the fire brigade that battled for the town's honour, but ever since that odd business with one murdering another, the men were no longer knocked about.

This year, the police were to represent the community, but now they stood in a small knot, engaged in a furious discussion.

"Oi!" called out the head of the showies, a hideous brute whose ear hair was nearly as thick as the curls protruding from his singlet's neck. "Get on with it!"

"We need an eighth!" said the young man who Dr Blake had called Charlie.

"Has to be a copper," another showie reminded the locals. His neck was as thick as one of his thighs and his crooked nose showed that he'd fight until the end.

"Yes, yes..." Charlie scanned the crowd. A sandy-haired man with one arm in a sling scowled and kicked the turf. He'd be of no use to them.

"Do you forfeit?" asked the head showie and the crowd groaned in reply.

"Bill's out," said Charlie, "according to the Doc..." He fixed his gaze on Doctor Blake, who was watching as expectedly as everyone else.

"Will a police surgeon do?" Charlie asked the showies.

"A surgeon?" The burly men roared with laughter. "You'll need 'im when we're done with you!"

"Charlie, don't be ridiculous," said Lucien, holding up his hands in protest.

"Yes," said Jean firmly. "Don't be silly."

Perhaps too firmly. Lucien pulled himself up tall so that her hand slipped free from his arm. "The men need me, Jean."

"Don't be a fool!" she hissed.

I smiled to myself. Well, that capped it. He'd do it for sure now.

He removed his jacket and offered it for her to hold. After a moment of seething hesitation, she took it. He began to unbutton his waistcoat.

"I won't be pouring your whiskey tonight when you can't even lift the bottle!"

He ignored her and tugged free his necktie.

She smoothed it atop the jacket and waistcoat. He undid his shirt buttons, joining all the younger lads who'd stripped down to their singlets in anticipation of a great effort. Even as she extended her hand for his cufflinks, she shook her head in defeat. "Nor will I massage your aching muscles."

He laughed, delighted at her capitulation. She had to meet his gaze, a smile playing on her lips. He slipped his shirt off and handed it across, his answering grin that of a naughty boy.

Miss Sharpton's head, Mrs Sandhurst's, Mrs Pope's, even Mrs Quinn's, snapped around in unison at the sight of Lucien Blake stripped down a snug white Chesty Bond singlet. Nearsighted, I had to lift my chin so to focus properly. The crowd's chatter lulled, then rose again. Well then. The slender boy who'd left Ballarat thirty years ago could now exhibit alongside the muscle-bound breeding bulls in the livestock pavilion. I took note of the fact that the only person who didn't seem shocked at his appearance was Jean Beazley. Perhaps the idle gossip about what the two of them got up to out at that isolated house was correct.

"A kiss for good luck?" Lucien asked Jean, wrapping his sturdy arms around her.

She pressed her palms to his nearly bare chest with an easy familiarity that made all of us raise our carefully plucked eyebrows. Turning her cheek from his seeking mouth, she pronounced: "That'll be the prize to the victor."

He kept a hold of her but leaned back to fix her with a steely gaze. "I will take that as a challenge."

The showies had been huddled together, taking swigs from a large dark bottle. They turned back, ready to begin combat and caught sight of Doctor Blake.

"Oi!" bellowed their leader. "What's this, a ring in?"

Lucien stepped away from his fiancee and spread his arms wide. "I'm just a simple country doctor," he said jovially. "Where shall you have me?" he asked Charlie.

As he pointed out the position in front of the anchorman, a heavy-set constable, Charlie smirked. "Are you blokes ready?" he asked, taking a spot at the front of the rope. I vaguely remember hearing that the young man lodged at the Blake home. Surely he knew what lurked under those crisply starched shirts.

Clutching the aforementioned garment tightly, crumpling it on her nervous hands, Jean moved next to us, her amusement gone. Even when Lucien threw her another cheeky grin, she only pressed her lips together. No smile back.

The priest from St Andrew's, considered the most honest man available, dropped his handkerchief to start the contest. Both teams of men leaned back on the rope and groaned in unison. The crowd began to scream encouragement, all but Jean Beazley, who could only bite her lower lip.

The showies had the advantage of experience, but the police had their local pride to defend. Slowly, inch by inch, they pulled the showies forward. Then their largest bruiser, his massive white belly exposed by his frayed singlet, got a better foothold, and yanked the Ballarat team off balance. The showies started to drag them up to the line that would mark defeat.

Jean screamed, "Bloody hell, you drongos, do it!"

For a moment, Lucien faltered, but dug his heels in, and called out to his mates, "Heave!"

All the men leaned back, their shoes deep in the soil. Staggering step by step, they dragged the showies closer to the midway mark. The din from the crowd was deafening. The fat constable fell, but his weight held their stance, and Blake dragged his team back, his shoulders bunched and his arms straining on the rope. Prize bull indeed.

"Ho!" gasped the police team and the showies lost their balance, falling like bowling pins.

To the wild cheers of Ballarat's residents, the winners slapped backs and shook hands, but Blake only dropped the rope and strode over for the spoils of his war. With a laugh, Jean tossed his garments into Mrs Pope's arms, much to that lady's shock, and dashed to his embrace. Her arms draped around his neck and his hands spanned her waist to bring her close. They exchanged a secretive smile before engaging in an inappropriately intimate kiss.

Miss Sharpton mirrored my observation when she gasped, "Really! There are children present!"

The couple may have heard her. Claiming Lucien's clothes from Mrs Pope, they wandered away from the crowd, oblivious to the congratulations coming Blake's way.

My friends called me off as well, as the fashion parade was about to begin. Without a backward look at the lovers, I followed the other ladies to the next event.

However, after another hour in their company, I found their endless chatter about Doctor Blake and Jean Beazley to be tiresome to an extreme and claiming a headache, begged off from tea at the food pavilion. Instead, I sought peace among a stand of trees-

Only to come across the very people I wished to avoid even more than the gossiping women. Jean was leaned against a trunk, Lucien's head cradled in her lap as he lay prone beside her. He'd only put his shirt back on and hadn't bothered to button it.

I froze when she spoke, not wanting to draw attention to myself.

"Violet Crumble or Cherry Ripe?" She was picking through a showbag.

"Is there a Freddo Frog?" he asked lazily, pushing up his singlet to scratch his belly.

She kept poking around in the bag, but he captured her free hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing his lips to her palm. "That's my sweet," he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear.

Jean looked around quickly, but I was shielded by the long draping branches of the willows. I daresn't move now.

She leant over to kiss him, her hand breaking loose from his grip to stroke down his chest to the golden skin he'd left exposed. He cradled her face with one hand, deepening the kiss, while picking loose her blouse with the other, his nimble fingers finding its own patch of skin to caress.

"Lucien," she warned breathlessly against his mouth. :"We shouldn't-" But her good intentions weren't stopping her hand's slide onward toward his waistband.

He intentionally misunderstood her. "You're the one with your hand in the show bag."

That earned him a bright slap on his belly but he just stared up at her, his fingers still stroking her jaw before lacing into her hair, bringing her back to a kiss. He loosened the top button of her blouse-

This was becoming disgraceful. If anyone were to come across them, this debauchery would shatter what was left of Jean's reputation. But of course, Lucien didn't care, did he? He always enjoyed the thrill of a risk, particularly when it came to women.

Hadn't he pursued the wife of a prominent businessman at the man's own party while nothing more than an undergraduate? Leaving a pretty girl expecting a marriage proposal out on the veranda while he shagged the wife up in her room? Jean Beazley thought that she had Lucien Blake on a short leash, but my experience would say otherwise.

He'd been a lithe young man, his smooth chest sleek beneath _my_ hands, and that short sandy hair had been a golden wave dropping over his sparkling blue gaze. An indiscretion where only I took the risk. A boy readying to leave for Scotland had snatched that bit of stuff when his pure sweetheart wouldn't do that sort of thing. Once he was gone, I was left with a furious husband and no leverage at all when he strayed time and time again.

I sighed with regret and anger. Jean's head popped up, alert.

Lucien tugged his singlet back down. "Did you ever find that Freddo Frog?" he asked lazily.

As though pulling curtains shut, she flipped his shirt closed over his chest with an "Oh, you," but started to go through the showbag again.

"Perhaps there's a Lamington in here," she said, "since you enjoy it so."

He laughed out loud. "You won't be rid of me that easily."

His mirth drew the attention of Patrick coming along the path by their spot, Edward in tow. They'd stopped messing about just in time. Father and son stopped at the sight of the lovers, distaste mirrored on their faces.

Lucien rolled onto his stomach to hide any embarrassment for Jean. "Hello there!" he called out easily.

Jean folded her legs under her skirt, quickly tucked her loose blouse back into the waistband and added her greeting. Edward focused on the flash her brassiere.

Patrick ignored their civility, of course. "Have you seen my wife?"

Clutching her neckline closed, Jean spoke up first. "She's about. I believe we saw her last at the tug of war with the other-" She paused to search for the right words.

"Gaggle of honking geese?" Lucien offered helpfully, pulling himself upright. "Flock of clucking chooks?"

"Lucien, hush," scolded Jean. She made the mistake of trying to sort out her mussed hair, which only drew further attention to what had obviously been going on.

Edward smirked; he was his father's son. Patrick controlled his reaction enough so that he only looked as constipated. "Right. We'll leave you to it," he said with a sneer.

Lucien poked through the showbag. "Will you have a lolly?" he said, holding up a handful of bright foil-wrapped confectionery.

"I'd want chocolates," Edward demanded, reached for them with his innate greed. The crinkling of the wrappers gave me cover, and I slipped away.

I found a spot down the path to be where I run into my husband and son. I had nowhere else to go. I'd be waiting for my narrow life to come along, and stop for pick me up once again. Fair-haired boys were best left in the past.

"Where were you?" asked Patrick, impatient.

"Going down memory lane," I said, turning away before he could give a retort.

~end


End file.
